“There is my whore.” I didn’t know what the word meant, but I didn’t like it. “Do you know how to say whore in Spanish?”
Father’s voice was cruel and cold, like frostbite against your skin. Isla must have not answered because Father continued speaking.
“Puta, Isla. Remember that.” I didn’t understand the words but my little heart hated him so much. I didn’t like Mother either. I told her Father was making Isla cry.
Instead of helping her, Mother slapped me across my face and called me a liar.
“Get on the bed,” he ordered in a harsh tone.
“Please, no.” Isla’s soft voice was barely a whisper. Her words barely settled through the air before a loud smack rang through the silence. My small hand shot to my face, holding it. I still remembered the pain of it when Mother slapped me. My heart cried for Isla and my mouth opened to scream. But then I remembered Isla’s demand. Not a sound.
My free hand covered my mouth.
Squeak. The mattress indented, suffocating me. The space was too small, it was too dark.
“Scream.” I hated his voice. I hated him. More than anyone else.
I bit my lip, tasted blood. Isla would usually kiss my boo boo better but my small heart knew her boo boo was bigger.
“Cry for me, my little whore.” The cold, cruel whisper was like an ominous fog surrounding the room, suffocating all the good in this world.
Squeaking from the bed. The covers moved as bodies shifted across the bed and my hiding spot had an opening.
Fingers curled over the edge of the bed, gripping it hard. Ugly fingers. Wrinkled fingers. One of those fingers held the ring with the Valiente family crest.
Screams bubbled in my throat, but Isla said to be quiet.
So I bit into my hand. Hard. I felt the pain and heard the noises making my stomach churn. I hated that fucking bed. Hot, salty tears dripped down my chin.
“Scream, damn it.”